


Affettuoso

by rukafais



Series: an endless song [7]
Category: Hollow Knight (Video Game)
Genre: M/M, it turns out they're both huge losers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-08
Updated: 2019-01-08
Packaged: 2019-10-06 13:52:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17346380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rukafais/pseuds/rukafais
Summary: meaning: with emotion.“Ishouldbe courting you with gifts, though,” the Troupe Master says, very seriously. “I feel like we began this relationship without the proper amount of, hmm, flair? Dramatics? Celebration?”“Mrmm, Master, please....youreallydon’t have to do that,” Brumm mumbles, already feeling the urge to bury his face in his hands.Grimm simply laughs. His musician honestly wonders why he didn’t expect this.





	Affettuoso

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MiniNephthys](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MiniNephthys/gifts).



> I got rudely gifted with something sad so now I'm writing something extremely gay as a return gift.

Grimm makes good on his promise, and every few days, he shows up with flowers.

He’s never known the Troupe for its ability to seek out living things, but clearly Grimm has a knack for it that he’s only recently revealed. Brumm wonders if it’s an inherited skill, or some memory passed down, or something cultivated by the master he fell in love with.

(It feels terrifying to admit that even in his own mind, that he’s in love. But it’s the kind of fear that’s halfway to excitement, the thrill of something new that he’s completely unprepared for, and he thinks he understands Grimm’s constant flirting with danger a little better.)

Ultimately, he doesn’t ask, because sometimes it feels better to leave things a mystery. The origin doesn’t matter as much as the results of his efforts.

And the results are incredible.

They’re not _just_ red, though Brumm wouldn’t have been surprised if they were. No, they come in all kinds of colours. Purples and pinks, blues and yellows, and on one occasion a bouquet of flowers with petals as transparent and delicate as glass.

And as for the red ones, he didn’t know there were so many shades of red in the world, or that Grimm had such a talent for finding them all. They range from deep, dark crimson, to modest scarlet, to flame-vivid reds that remind him of...

_Brumm carefully pulls a flower from his most recent gift and holds it up, like he’s trying to see it better. Grimm just watches him, head tilted in a way that suggests curiosity, but he’s not quite sure what his musician is doing until Brumm reaches up to tuck the flower behind one of his horns._

_“Is this a token of your affection? I’ll treasure it.”_

_His voice is as smooth as it ever was, his eyes crinkled in affectionate amusement, but Brumm takes a small amount of satisfaction in knowing he’s never seen Grimm blush before now._

_He wears it the next time he performs and teases Brumm about blushing behind his mask, and takes his affectionate revenge._

...They remind him of many things, really.

The flowers don’t last forever; Grimm has many powers, but preserving living things isn’t something he can do. He is fire and flame, a vessel for a burning brand, and his nature is at odds with such greenery.

But it makes it more valuable, Brumm thinks, that he tried this hard.

When the flowers begin to wither, as flowers do, he preserves them as best he can. It’s only fitting that he put just as much effort into making them last - into remembering them - as Grimm did in getting them. Eventually, his master stops giving him quite so many, but only because he doesn’t want to give Brumm more work.

He has enough dried flowers to fill a book by the time he finishes. He presses them between the pages, carefully flips through them now and then; each page has its own little memory.

It’s nice.

* * *

 

Some time later, they’re called to a kingdom overgrown, pouring with rain. While his master sleeps, Brumm explores and gathers as many flowers as he can find. He’s drenched by the time he returns, but his arms are full of delicate blue and white blooms, clearly thriving in the downpour.

Rather than practice his usual routine or rest, Grimm spends the hours before the performance working on something else. He tells Divine to keep Brumm away for a while, and she happily obliges by being her usual distracting self.

When he steps out onto the stage that night, he wears the heavy, hooded cloak he brings out for snow and poor weather, and it shimmers with a train and veil of blue and white flowers.

Brumm tries to concentrate on his music because he does actually still need to play, but it’s increasingly difficult to do so. Grimm takes a certain kind of delight in it.

_“You’re teasing me, Master,” he says, later, in private._

_“Well, I’m allowed,” Grimm says, and steals anything else he was about to say with a kiss._

_No words are necessary after that._

* * *

 

Sometimes, Grimm gives him trinkets instead. Pretty things, shining charms and simple bracelets and elegant ornaments, and though Brumm has never been much for decoration, they’re...nice. He keeps them where he can see them, though he doesn’t quite have the confidence to wear them yet.

At first, Brumm’s not entirely sure where they come from, though he knows Grimm can certainly handle currency when he needs to. There’s not many opportunities to shop, considering the lands the Troupe visits, so where?

“Oh, I just find bugs to trade with,” Grimm says breezily, when he’s asked. “I pick up things that catch my fancy. You know how it is.”

He’s not sure he really does know how it is. Grimm, for all his flashiness, tends not to be interested in jewellery and other things of that nature. They only get in the way of his performances.

_It’s Divine who provides the answer in the end; she tells Brumm with a smile that Grimm takes pains to search out things that might suit him and fusses to her about whether he’ll like them or not._

_“He gets more worried about it than I’ve seen for anything,” she says fondly. “I think he fusses too much. But you do too, lovely, so you’re very, very suited for each other!”_

Brumm does a bit of fussing himself, eventually, working up the courage to ask what he wants to ask. Wondering if what he’s chosen will be enough to suit Grimm, and then figuring that Grimm could make anything look good, so it’s probably fine.

The Troupe Master laughs quietly in that fond and vulnerable way that Brumm feels privileged to see, and drapes the shimmering chain over his musician’s horns, arranging it just so. It shines prettily, even in the darkness.

He kneels and lets Brumm place its twin - the other half of a paired set - the way he likes it on his head, and when he straightens up, his musician can’t help but think that it makes him look even better than he normally does.

“Well, then. Shall we?”

He doesn’t trust his nervousness to not distort his words. He simply unslings his instrument from his back, and looks up at him, and nods.

He doubts the audience will notice those new ornaments, but he feels better for having them there, and isn't that what's important?)

* * *

 

He draws the line at new outfits, as much as bugs have new outfits; he’s happy with the ones he has, and he doesn’t feel like it would be right to embellish any more. Grimm understands, and doesn’t insist.

_“Perhaps a little ribbon for-”_

_“Master,” the musician sighs._

_“For your charming instrument, I was about to say.”_

_The suggestion is so absurd it catches Brumm off guard with an incredulous little laugh; Grimm simply smiles, so he concedes._

_The next time Brumm takes out his instrument, a red ribbon tied in a neat bow flutters proudly on it. This time, Grimm is the one who laughs._

They’re soft, quiet things, silly and sweet; they don’t feel heartwrenchingly tense or passionately momentous. Brumm savours them; they’re little shards of brightness in a role where their arrival is meant to cleanse past tragedy. (Sometimes, they’re welcomed with song and dance and music, bugs who celebrate the passing of the old to make way for the new. More often they are greeted by silence and death and ruin, and those bright memories help make things more bearable.)

Love is quieter than he expected, more subtle and ridiculous than he thought it might be. He treasures every moment of it.


End file.
